Page 40 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Even Kirsty and Mark explain via video message how grateful they are for everything I’ve done in the past. For always being so understanding. For doing such a fantastic job raising the girls.

Mathias cycles through Will Shakespeare’s slides. They’re just pictures of the dog in the pub, or in the fields behind the pub, or in town, with captions like “Who will give me belly rubs if the pub is closed?” and “If not community, why community shaped?”

It reeks of Daisy’s interference, but neither she nor Mathias have done their own slides, and I feel a little stung. But mostly I’m relieved. Not sure how I can hold back the tears any longer.

And then Mathias presses a button on his controller and Molly’s face appears on the screen. It’s another video, and I’m crying before he even hits play.

“Hi Dad,” she says, waving to the camera.

“Daisy asked me to record you a message explaining why you should accept everyone’s help, though I’m sure every point I want to make has already been said.

Unless I’m up first, in which case . . .

awkward. Anyway, please don’t take this the wrong way, but for the love of everything holy, stop being so fucking stubborn.

We all need this place. And we need you.

And we’d all be lost without both those things.

Okay, I love you. We all love you. Bye. Bye. ” Molly freezes as she waves once more.

I shield my face with my hand and look down at the table.

Daisy crouches next to me and peers up through the gap. “What do you say?”

I try to find a reasonable excuse to turn down their help yet again. I rack my brains, but nothing brings itself to light.

And maybe I’m done making excuses. I’ve done it for so long and I’m tired. Maybe I should just fucking believe that there are people out there who love me and want to see me thrive. Lots of people.

Maybe I should be selfish for once.

“Fine. Whatever. You all win. I’ll accept your help.”

Cheers explode around me.

“But it’s not charity, okay?” I’m specifically looking at Lando when I say this, since he’s the only person—well, his father is—with the means to pay off the damn roof bill in one hit.

He holds his hands up in a surrender gesture. “My dad would definitely notice if thirty K went missing from his account again.”

I choose not to mention the “again” addendum. Beside me, people side-eye each other, coming to the same conclusion I had. It’s not worth the hassle.

“So, what’s this solution you’ve all come up with?” I ask, thumbing the tears from my eyes.

Mathias grins, looks around the room, then clicks to the next slide.

The background is an aerial photograph—taken from Mathias’s drone?—of the RFC’s hut and field. Superimposed over the top are massive letters spelling out:

OWEN BOSLE Y

VS

MATHIAS JONES

REMATCH

Mathias whacks each word with the pointer. Then taps the word rematch about twenty times.

And I’m truly speechless. My jaw hangs open, eyes flicking between the screen, Mathias, Daisy, and everyone else.

“It’s not just going to be a game of rugby, we’re gonna make a big day of it,” Mathias says.

“There’s gonna be a community fair. Harriet from the farm between here and the club said we can put some bouncy castles and food wagons and all sorts in the fields.

But the main attraction is going to be this.

“We’ll sell physical tickets for the match, but we’ll also live stream it and people can pay to watch. We figured since everyone hates me anyway, and they’re all desperate to see you get your revenge on me—”

I wince at his words. “Nobody wants to see that.”

“Dad, of course they do. I mean, obviously they don’t want Mathias’s leg to get broken—” Daisy grimaces, she see-saws her hand. “They probably don’t want to see that, but it’s gonna be huge. They just wanna watch you get one last try over Mathias fucking Jones.”

“Language, Daze.”

“She’s right,” Mathias adds. “They already have this perceived rivalry between us. We might as well milk it. Make it pay.”

“If you can’t beat ’em,” Viv says.

“Then you’re not hitting them hard enough,” Roger finishes.

Mathias shrugs. “Fair point.”

“Who’s playing in this game, then?” I ask.

“Us, obviously. Plus Tom, Bryn, Lando, the sevens lads, and some of the Cents. We’re aiming to get an even split between the old boys’ league and the pros.

I have all the equipment we need to stream it.

Lando’s dad knows a guy who rents out bleachers for events like this.

Tyler knows a bunch of street-food type people. Daisy’s on social media—”

“And reffing,” she adds.

“And reffing,” Mathias corrects. “Viv’s going to sort out games and activities for the fair.

Harry Ellis’s mum runs a security company and said they can provide security at a cheap price.

It’s a group effort. Daisy said you need the deposit paid by July, so we’re thinking of doing it the week before. End of June.”

“But . . . what if we don’t make the money back that we’ve spent on bouncy castles and food wagons?” I ask. I’m desperately trying to keep the stroppy teenage quality out of my voice.

“The food wagons and vendors pay us. We’re bringing the customers to them,” he replies.

“But what if nobody turns up?”

Mathias places his hands on his hips. “They will. Trust me. I’ve done my research. I don’t gamble unless I know I’m going to win.”

“But this might make people hate you even more?” I’m getting desperate now. I didn’t mean to drop the H word, and Mathias doesn’t bat an eyelid, but I can’t help feeling as though I’m not articulating my thoughts properly.

This feels like a bad idea and I cannot for the life of me figure out why. It’s not just about folk disliking Mathias more than they do already.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to change their minds about me, but they love you—everyone does—and they love the drama. If we don’t do this, we’re throwing away a big opportunity,” he says.

“But . . . but . . . end of June will be after the season finishes. You won’t be around any longer.”

Mathias’s hand finds mine, envelops it. It’s agonisingly warm. “I’ll stay an extra few weeks. I can’t think of a better way to say goodbye.”

I suck in a lungful of air and hold it there, at least until the threat of further tears has passed.

“No, you’re right.” It is the best way to say goodbye.

The most fitting, and the most celebratory.

Doesn’t stop it from feeling like a dagger to the heart, though.

“Okay, let’s do it. Let’s have this rematch.

Let me know what you need from me and when. ”

Over my head, Lando pulls a party popper. “Yay, Mr B said yes.”

Everybody else takes this as a sign to cheer. Daisy wraps her arms around me, and I paste on a smile.

After a few moments, when the room has calmed down, Roger pipes up. “We still doing this quiz or what?”

“Sure,” I say, because Mathias and I worked hard on it last night—hard being the operative word—and I need something to distract me.

Mathias watches me quietly. He’s the only person here not smiling.

In theory, this rematch has the potential to earn the kind of money we could only dream of, but it also has the potential to cement Mathias Jones as the Cents’ number one enemy, and I’m . . . not okay with that.

I don’t want folk to dislike Mathias more than they already do. I want him to stay here, live in my village, play for my old team. I want people to stop heckling him and open their fucking eyes, see the real him, fall in love with him as I have.

Because . . . damn, I’m so fucking in love with Mathias Jones.